What The House Forgot

Father Will Be Home Soon

Victor had already had enough of the house; he had enough of its aura and its dark, gloomy feeling. Sherlock's sudden break in personality was enough to force Victor back outside, for as soon as Sherlock stepped away there seemed to be sudden lack of oxygen within the building. It was as if Victor's muscles had demanded three times as much just to stand, and with his heart beating so quickly he felt as if his lung capacity was simply not enough. As Sherlock slunk away, back peddling across the foyer as if his legs knew where to go without the aid of his eyes, Victor began to retreat back towards the front door. There was a moment of panic building within his heart, his feet beginning to trip over themselves as he attempted to escape the way he came. Sherlock still hadn't blinked, and Victor didn't dare lose eye contact. For some reason he imagined that as soon as he took his eyes off of the retreating boy he would vanish, perhaps deeper into the house, perhaps in the very doorway Victor was trying to escape from.
Was he afraid of Sherlock? At the moment Victor didn't know. But the house was telling him things, the house itself was whispering, and Victor didn't like what he heard. He didn't like the ideas as they were presented to him. He didn't like the halls which veered into darkness, he didn't trust the shadows that Sherlock chose to vanish into. And so Victor stepped outside. He yanked the door open and fell through, stumbling across the threshold and hoping that the aged wooden porch would be enough to hold him.
"Victor!" called an anxious voice, a pair of urgent hands catching him almost as soon as he emerged into the...darkness? Victor blinked. The sunny afternoon he had left had suddenly been clouded over; a thick darkness hovering over the landscape as if the night had come on much quicker than it ought to. Crickets were chirping earlier than usual. The moonlight felt out of place. Rosie had caught him, for suddenly Victor realized his legs were not able to hold himself up any longer. He leaned heavily into the girl's figure, striding slowly across the floorboards until the railing could serve as a proper crutch.
"You've been in there for ages! I thought you had vanished!" Rosie exclaimed, allowing Victor to slide from her grasp but still keeping her hands clenched, her knuckles white and her fingernails chewed all the way to the stump.
Victor shook his head, peering his eyes out from under the porch and staring up into the sky to confirm his worst suspicions. There was no storm cloud blocking the sun, in fact the night was clear and cold. There was no sun. The moon was shining, and the stars were out. It was later, much later, than it was when he entered.
"I was in there for two minutes? What are you talking about?" Victor grumbled.
"More like three hours!" Rosie wailed. "don't try to lie to me, it won't work."
"I just stepped in, spoke with Sherlock and...and stepped out," Victor whispered, his voice beginning to rise in a heightened panic as Rosie's expression didn't change. He half expected her to begin laughing, to admit that she had somehow shifted the daylight as a convoluted practical joke. When her face, usually so lighthearted, remained in its serious, concerned expression, Victor knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
"Sherlock said he couldn't find you," she whispered. "He's trying to find signal, we were about to call the police."
"I was in there for two minutes!" Victor exclaimed, finally finding strength enough to stomp his foot against the deck and cause the poor crumbling thing to buckle. Rosie stepped back, as if afraid of the sudden outburst, though she remained calm.
"Alright, if that's what you believe. You must have blacked out, or lost time somewhere along the way," she decided at last. Rosie pulled her hand through her hair, tangling her painted nails along the knots as she stepped off of the porch and stared around the grounds. Victor followed her gaze towards Sherlock, who was holding his phone above his head near the pond in a long and almost exaggerated pose. His body had extended to its full length, and as he craned Victor thought he looked like the pasty English version of the statue of liberty. It was only then that Victor realized his outfit was different. Or rather, it was different than what he was wearing inside.
"Sherlock!" Rosie called, waving her arms above her head to get the distant boy's attention. Sherlock stiffened, dropping his arm before racing up towards the porch in relief. He looked different, he looked normal. There was no hint of aggression, nor of seduction. His attire was proper. Now that Victor thought about it, the Sherlock he had encountered inside was wearing nothing but a long black robe. Had that processed as normal in its time?
"Victor, thank God," Sherlock breathed, exhaling powerfully as he recovered from his light jog up from the pond. He pocketed his phone, sliding his hand in and out of his pocket as if looking for something meaningful to do. The boy's cheeks were flushed, but not nearly so hostile.
"You were in there. Thirty seconds ago, I saw you walk away," Victor protested. Sherlock blinked his confusion, looking towards Rosie as if wondering whether they needed the ambulance after all.
"I wasn't there long. I went back for the lighter. Rosie said you had gone to look for me," Sherlock defended.
"I wasn't able to get in at all! The door was closed the whole time, and you jerks ignored my knocking!" Rosie exclaimed, anchoring her hands upon her hips and dropping her face into a deep and disappointed frown. Victor pushed himself off of the railing, wanting to separate himself from that house and from his friends for one moment longer. He stumbled off down the steps, planting his feet upon the gravel and walking in exasperation towards the car. He couldn't tell what kind of practical joke this was. He couldn't tell if they were even joking. Yet they each told a different narrative, trusting their experience more than their peers, and it was in that distrust that the confusion lay. How could all three of their stories be correct? How could they all have been two places at once?
"Can we just go home?" Victor whispered, pulling at the door handle to find it locked. He shuttered, still feeling the pressure applied to his chest, still feeling the tickling breath along his neck.
"That's probably for the best," Rosie agreed in a stifled voice, scrambling off the porch with Sherlock in her wake.
"You really didn't speak to me?" Victor clarified, turning towards Sherlock as he approached the back door of the car, his stature positioned much more hesitantly than that swagger he had approached with. Even now he looked too modest, too polite to attempt such breakage of boundaries.
"I didn't see anyone inside," Sherlock swore, his voice ducking down in hesitation as he stared worriedly at his shoes. "Though I thought I heard someone, someone upstairs."
"There was no one upstairs," Victor swore. "But if you didn't talk to me...someone else did."
"Get in the car, both of you," Rosie demanded, yanking open her door and sliding urgently into the driver's seat. Sherlock and Victor followed closely behind, staring silently in front of them with a strange sense of maturity. Victor felt different as the car began to pull back out the driveway, he felt strangely complete. For the longest time he had felt separated, as if his soul was not entirely within his body. Though tonight he realized that was only half true. Yes, it was not inside, though after stepping inside that house he realized he could visit it whenever he saw fit.